Blue Mars (14 page)

So. The main AI had Ann’s genome record. But if he ordered this
lab to start synthesizing her DNA strands for her (adding the recodings of HERG
and SCN5A) the people here would surely notice. And then there would be
trouble.

He went back to his tiny room to make a coded call to Da Vinci. He
asked his associates there to start the synthesis, and they agreed without any
questions beyond the technical ones. Sometimes he loved those saxaclones with
all his heart.

After that it was back to waiting. Hours passed; more hours; more
hours. Eventually several days had passed, with no change in Ann. The doctor’s
expression grew blacker and blacker, though she said nothing more about
unhooking Ann. But it was in her eye. Sax took to sleeping on the floor in
Ann’s room. He grew to know the rhythm of her breathing. He spent a lot of time
with a hand cradling her head, as Michel had told him Nirgal had done with him.
He very much doubted that this had ever cured anybody of anything, but he did
it anyway. Sitting for so long in such a posture, he had occasion to think
about the brain plasticity treatments that Vlad and Ursula had administered to
him after his stroke. Of course a stroke was a very different thing than a
coma. But a change of mind was not necessarily a bad thing, if one’s mind was
in pain.

More days passed without a change, each day slower and blanker and
more fearful than the one before. The incubators in the Da Vinci labs had long
since cooked up a full set of corrected Ann-specific DNA strands, and antisense
rein-forcers, and glue-ons—the whole gerontological package, in its latest
configuration.

So one night he called up Ursula, and had a long consultation with
her. She answered his questions calmly, even as she struggled with the idea of
what he wanted to do. “The synaptic stimulus package we gave you would produce
too much synaptic growth in undamaged brains,” she said firmly. “It would alter
personality to no set pattern.” Creating madmen like Sax, her alarmed look
said.

Sax decided to skip the synaptic supplements. Saving Ann’s life
was one thing, changing her mind another. Random change was not the goal
anyway. Acceptance was. Happiness—Ann’s true happiness, whatever that might be—
now so far away, so hard to imagine. He ached to think of it. It was
extraordinary how much physical pain could be generated by thought alone—the
limbic system a whole universe in itself, suffused with pain, like the dark matter
that suffused everything in the universe.

“Have you talked to Michel?” Ursula asked.

“No. Good idea.”

He called Michel, explained what had happened, and what he had in
mind to do. “My God, Sax,” Michel said, looking shocked. But in only a few
moments he was promising to come. He would get Desmond to fly him to Da Vinci
to pick up the treatment supplies, and then fly on up to the refuge.

So Sax sat in Ann’s room, a hand to her head. A bumpy skull; no
doubt a phrenologist would have had a field day.

Then Michel and Desmond were there, his brothers, standing beside
him. The doctor was there too, escorting them, and the tall woman and others as
well; so everything had to be communicated by looks, or the absence of looks.
Nevertheless everything was perfectly clear. Desmond’s face was if anything too
clear. They had Ann’s longevity package with them. They only had to wait their
chance.

Which came quite soon; with Ann settled into her coma, the
situation in the little hospital was routine. The effects of the longevity
treatment on a coma, however, were not fully known; Michel had scanned the
literature, and the data were sparse. It had been tried as an experimental
treatment in a few unresponsive comas before, and had been successful in
rousing victims almost half the time. Because of that Michel now thought it was
a good idea.

And so, soon after their arrival, the three of them got up in the
middle of the night, and tiptoed past the sleeping attendant in the medical
center’s anteroom. Medical training had had its usual effect, and the attendant
was sound asleep, though awkwardly propped in her chair. Sax and Michel hooked
Ann up to the IVs, and stuck the needles in the veins on the backs of her
hands, working slowly, carefully, precisely. Quietly. Soon she was hooked up,
the IVs were flowing, the new protein strands were in her bloodstream. Her
breathing gre’w irregular, and Sax felt hot with fear. He groaned silently. It
was comforting to have Michel and Desmond here, each holding an arm as if
supporting him, keeping him from falling; but he wished desperately for Hiroko.
This was what she would have done, he was certain of it. Which made him feel
better. Hiroko was one of the reasons he was doing this. Still he longed for
her support, her physical presence, he wished she would show up to help him
like she had on Daedalia Planitia. To help Ann. She was the expert at this kind
of radically irresponsible human experimentation, this would have been small
potatoes to her....

When the operation was finished, they took out the IV needles and
put the equipment away. The attendant slept on, mouth open, looking like the
girl she was. Ann was still unconscious, but breathing easier, Sax felt. More
strongly.

The three men stood looking down at Ann together. Then they
slipped out, and tiptoed back down the hall to their rooms. Desmond was dancing
on his toes like a fool, and the other two shushed him. They got back in their
beds but couldn’t sleep; and couldn’t talk; and so lay there silently, like
brothers in a big house, late at night, after a successful expedition out into
the nocturnal world.

The next morning the doctor came in. “Her vital signs are better.”

The three men expressed their pleasure at this.

Later, down in the dining hall, Sax had a strong urge to tell
Michel and Desmond about his encounter with Hiroko. The news would mean more to
these two than anyone else. But something in him was afraid to do it. He was
afraid of seeming overwrought, perhaps even delusional. That moment when Hiroko
had left him at the rover, and walked off into the storm—he didn’t know what to
think of that. In his long hours with Ann he had done some thinking, and some
research, and he knew now that Terran climbers alone at high altitude,
suffering from oxygen loss, not infrequently hallucinated companion climbers.
Some kind of doppelganger figure. Rescue by anima. And his air tube had been
partially clogged.

He said, “I thought this was what Hiroko would have done.”

Michel nodded. “It’s bold, I’ll hand you that. It has her style.
No, don’t misunderstand me—I’m glad you did it.”

“About fucking time, if you ask me,” said Desmond. “Someone should
have tied her down and made her take the treatment years ago. Oh my Sax, my
Sax—” He laughed happily. “I only hope she doesn’t come to as crazy as you did.”

“But Sax had a stroke,” Michel said.

“Well,” Sax said, concerned to set the record straight, “actually
I was somewhat eccentric before.”

His two friends nodded, mouths pursed. They were in high spirits,
though the situation was still unresolved. Then the tall doctor came in; Ann
had come out of her coma.

Sax felt that his stomach was still too contracted by tension to
take in food, but he noted that he was disposing of a pile of buttered toast
quite handily. Wolfing it down, in fact.

“But she’s going to be very angry at you,” Michel said.

Sax nodded. It was, alas, probable. Likely, even. A bad thought.
He did not want to be struck by her again. Or worse, denied her company.

“You should come with us to Earth,” Michel suggested. “Maya and I
are going with the delegation, and Nirgal.”

“There’s a delegation going to Earth?”

“Yes, someone suggested it, and it seems like a good idea. We need
to have some representatives right there on Earth talking to them. And by the
time we get back from that, Ann will have had time to think it over.”

“Interesting,” Sax said, relieved at the mere suggestion of an
escape from the situation. In fact it was almost frightening how quickly he
could think of ten good reasons for going to Earth. “But what about Pavonis,
and this conference they’re talking about?”

“We can stay part of that by video.”
  
.

“True.” It was just what he had always maintained.

The plan was attractive. He did not want to be there when Ann woke
up. Or rather, when she found out what he had done. Cowardice, of course. But
still. “Desmond, are you going?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“But you say Maya is going too?” Sax asked Michel.

“Yes.”

“Good. The last time I, I, I tried to save a woman’s life, Maya
killed her.”

“What? What—Phyllis? You saved Phyllis’s life?”

“Well—no. That is to say, I did, but I was also the one who put
her in danger in the first place. So I don’t think it counts.” He tried to
explain what had happened that night in Burroughs, with little success. It was
fuzzy in his own mind, except for certain vivid horrible moments. “Never mind.
It was just a thought. I shouldn’t have spoken. I’m....”

“You’re tired,” Michel said. “But don’t worry. Maya will be away
from the scene here, and safely under our eye.”

Sax nodded. It was sounding better all the time. Give Ann some
time to cool off; think it over; understand. Hopefully. And it would be very
interesting of course to see conditions on Earth firsthand. Extremely
interesting. So interesting thatjio rational person could pass up the
opportunity.

PART
THREE

              
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---A New Constitution

              
-------------

Ants came to Mars as part of the soil project, and soon they were
everywhere, as is their way. And so the little red people encountered ants, and
they were amazed. These creatures were just the right size to ride, it was like
the Native Americans meeting the horse. Tame the things and they would run
wild.

Domesticating the ant was no easy matter. The little red
scientists had not even believed such creatures were possible, because of surface
area-to-volume constraints, but there they were, clumping around like
intelligent robots, so the little red scientists had to explain them. To get
some help they climbed up into the humans’ reference books, and read up on
ants. They learned about the ants’pheromones, and they synthesized the ones
they needed to control the soldier ants of a particularly small docile red
species, and after that, they were in business. Little red cavalry. They
charged around everywhere on antback, having a fine old time, twenty or thirty
of them on each ant, like pashas on elephants. Look close at enough ants and
you’ll see them, right there on top.

But the little red scientists continued to read the texts, and
learned about human pheromones. They went back to the rest of the little red
people, awestruck and appalled. Now we know why these humans are such trouble,
they reported. Humans have no more will than these ants we are riding around
on. They are giant meat ants.

The little red people tried to comprehend such a travesty of life.

Then a voice said No they’re not, to all of them at once. The
little red people talk to each other telepathically, you see, and this was like
a telepathic loudspeaker announcement. Humans are spiritual beings, this voice
insisted.

How do you know? the little red people asked telepathically. Who
are you? Are you the ghost of John Boone?

I am the Gyatso Rimpoche, the voice answered. The eighteenth
reincarnation of the Dalai Lama. I am traveling the Bardo in search of my next
reincarnation. I’ve looked everywhere on Earth, but I’ve had no luck, and I
decided to look somewhere new. Tibet is still under the thumb of the Chinese,
and they show no signs of letting up. The Chinese, although I love them dearly,
are hard bastards. And the other governments of the world long ago turned their
backs on Tibet. So no one will challenge the Chinese. Something needs to be
done. So I came to Mars.

Good idea, the little red people said.

Yes, the Dalai Lama agreed, but I must admit I am having a hard
time finding a new body to inhabit. For one thing there are very few children
anywhere. Then also it does not look like anyone is interested. I looked in
Sheffield but everyone was too busy talking. I went to Sabishii but everyone
there had their heads stuck in the dirt. I went to Elysium but everyone had
assumed the lotus position and could not be roused. I went to Christian-opolis
but everyone there had other plans. I went to Hiranyagarba but everyone there
said we’ve already done enough for Tibet. I’ve gone everywhere on Mars, to
every tent and station, and everywhere people are just too busy. No one wants
to be the nineteenth Dalai Lama. And the Bardo is getting colder and colder.

Good luck, the little red people said. We’ve been looking ever
since John died and we haven’t even found anyone worth talking to, much less
living inside. These big people are all messed up.

The Dalai Lama was discouraged by this response. He was getting
very tired, and could not last much longer in the Bardo. So he said, What about
one of you?

Well, sure, the little red people said. We’d be honored. Only it
will have to be all of us at once. We do everything like that together.

Why not? said the Dalai Lama, and he transmigrated into one of the
little red specks, and that same instant he was there in all of them, all over
Mars. The little red people looked up at the humans crashing around above them,
a sight which before they had tended to regard as some kind of bad wide-screen
movie, and now they found they were filled with all the compassion and wisdom
of the eighteen previous lives of the Dalai Lama. They said to each other, Ka
wow, these people really are messed up. We thought it was bad before, but look
at that, it’s even worse than we thought. They’re lucky they can’t read each
other’s minds or they’d kill each other. That must be why they’re killing each
other—they know what they’re thinking themselves, and so they suspect all the
others. How ugly. How sad.

They need your help, the Dalai Lama said inside them all. Maybe
you can help them.

Maybe, the little red people said. They were dubious, to tell the
truth. Theyhadbeen trying to help humans ever since John Boone died, they had
set up whole towns in the porches of every ear on the planet, and talked
continuously ever since, sounding very much like John had, trying to get people
to wake up and act decent, and never with any effect at all, except to send a
lot of people to ear nose and throat specialists. Lots of people on Mars
thought they had tinnitus, but no one ever understood their little red people.
It was enough to discourage anyone.

But now the little red people had the compassionate spirit of the
Dalai Lama infusing them, and so they decided to try one more time. Perhaps it
will take more than whispering in their ears, the Dalai Lama pointed out, and
they all agreed. We’ll have to get their attention some other way.

Have you tried your telepathy on them? the Dalai Lama asked.

Oh no, they said. No way. Too scary. The ugliness might kill us on
the spot. Or at least make us real sick.

Maybe not, the Dalai Lama said. Maybe if you blocked off your
reception of what they thought, and just beamed your thoughts at them, it would
be all right, fust send lots of good thoughts, like an advice beam. Compassion,
love, agreeableness, wisdom, even a little common sense.

We’ll give it a try, the little red people said. But we’re all
going to have to shout at the top of our telepathic voices, all in chorus,
because these folks just aren’t listening.

I’ve faced that for nine centuries now, the Dalai Lama said. You
get used to it. And you little ones have the advantage of numbers. So give it a
try.

And so all the little red people all over Mars looked up and took
a deep breath.